Run, Pace, Steady Somnambulist

My mother
told me once,
stop thinking,
so I tried to keep

my head underneath
laterigrade dampers,
where the conscious-
ness runs on vexation,
streamed distress

steaming with anxious
remembrances, where
then the recurrence
and the emotional

numbness didn’t end,
the current pulse of
overload never ceased,

and the insomnia mechanized
me into maniacal somnambulist.

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Sia(lidan)

The greatest
thing about fame
is hiding your face.

Your eye is the eye of
a needle, sticking out
like a salted wound, a
million bullets setting
the black and blue

bird free. It isn’t
as elastic as it once thought
it would be. Angel roped
with wings, it learns what
alive means, breathes into
itself until the unstoppable

force of fire to gasoline
breaks the chandelier
of a cloaked face,

broken glass of a smile
undressed, everywhere.

Glazed Frappucino Stew

Mocha never tasted
so much liked chestnut.

The coffee cream caramels,
candies.

The cast-iron pot
boils the chocolate coasters
of cherry candles, hints of

cumin, minted dances crusting
inside the rusted custard,

a Bailey-tasted ale.

I’m in the kitchen again,
looking for the familiar,
lush inebriety.

Chopping board of lost
pieces. Amnesic cup,
same sin, named differently:

Crocked chicken, sloshed
in the crockpot.

Tameless

-inspired by Glitch Mob’s “Animus Vox”

I am skimming the edge,
underneath the    progression
of motor resonance, that
drop. The drum-gut  sizzle
striates a sepulchral  ringing,
a repercussion in the  back
of where I stand,      bridged

bass. Repeated  voices of
animals     lacerate the
threshold of  modular
urgency,    creeping up
beneath the black-noised
space, the  howled depths
increase, then leave
a resounded respiration.

Missing Lime-Sliced Smile

That kind of calm
does not exist.

The impermanent
missile, the smile
of a day, washes away.

A simile for miss.

The missed target,
the missing of a familiar
blessedness, sacred seed
bleeding on the mouth
to mark that sort of peace.

Pieces of a prospect
seep through and charge
into the tidal upsurge,
a dialed mind that never
ends.

In the desert, that kind
of calm does not exist.

Sticks, mulch, rest.
Impermanent missiles
in the day’s trajectory.

The wash of that
contentedness,
a limed-sliced smile.

Kamikaze Harmonica Riddle-Stone

The mismatch of a stone
inside the tilt of a
kamikaze blow
landslides, hollowed,
harmonica-toned.

This puzzle reads like
a freeway bridge, a red-
clayed maze lit with the low
bioluminescence of a fairy
shrimp sipping

the vaccine of hyper-
saline solution, until
the solution is found—

to open the rock’s
hindered solidness,
treat it like a pillow.

The granite will weaken,
ease into softer soil,
until the pill-shaped
granules thaw—

the glacial brine
will salt into star-carted
mixtures, carnal
soup.

 

Brother, Wafered Paper, Almond Man

I’ve tried to cling onto
the bland vanilla of
a shelled heart:

almond-molded, unprocessed
materialism, my brother’s
own i(s)land.

There, he’s so hot, paper bills
disintegrate in the back of his
irises, inside his flimsy dream
world.

Impatience bites at him,
when it matters to his taste.
When he’s hungry, he latches
onto desperation, demands
everything

green, abundant.

Young, immature fruit:
the growth of an unripe
almond husk, similar in
thinness to a wafered texture
of a dollar bill, rolling paper.

We spent time searching
once, in the streets of
Marbella, for the budding
temptation—my brother’s

encapsulated in joint-
ed pleasures, mine in
the charcoaled burn
of the castañas
I imagined were the drupes
roasting, tinfoiled on the pans.

We both rely on helpless
habits, his in his blunt
pride, fuming, mine
in the constant tendency
to pull at the almond’s hull,

until the skin
severs,

like how we both fall
apart
in our deliberate
self-decompositions.